


The Infinite Wisdom of Margo Hanson

by SassyStarboard



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Background Relationships, Drinking, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21626860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyStarboard/pseuds/SassyStarboard
Summary: Quentin was uncomfortable and alone.Earlier, Margo had invited him to her party so he could meet some person named Eliot that she had decided Quentin was absolutely perfect for but unfortunately, Margo and her friend are nowhere to be found. And now Quentin was trapped in a lively social environment with nothing to do but try not to make a fool of himself in front of the insanely hot bartender.
Relationships: Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater & Margo Hanson, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 3
Kudos: 79





	The Infinite Wisdom of Margo Hanson

**Author's Note:**

> I read the books before watching the show but I also only made it through the middle of season three, so this is probably a little AU and probably ignores whatever’s canon right now. I’ve also never written for Magicians before, but hopefully it still sort of makes sense? Also this is unbetaed. Comments are always welcome. Enjoy!

Quentin was uncomfortable and alone. 

Margo, an older student who for some reason found him interesting even though he had yet to be assigned a discipline, had invited him to a party at her discipline’s cottage under the pretense that he was fun to be around. And because of some person named Eliot that Margo had decided Quentin was absolutely perfect for.

Initially Quentin had declined the invitation, but upon his refusal, he had been informed the invitation was not a request but rather a command. Thus, Quentin found himself in the Physical kids cottage trying desperately not to inhale the wild variants of drugs that were rapidly filling the room. He had forced himself to come and, in all honesty, hadn’t been having a completely terrible time in his solitude. Until the couch he was sitting on became the location of what soon evolved into a rapidly growing orgy. Uncomfortable and strongly averse to joining in, Quentin quickly dispelled himself from the situation and rushed to the next room over. Cursing himself for getting into this situation in the first place, Quentin all but collapsed at the bar. Relieved, he put his head down on the cool wood, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow, and groaned. Quentin wanted to go home.

"Drink?" 

Quentin raised his head. It was the bartender who had spoken, and he was tall and lean with dark, intentionally messy hair. He wore a sharp collared, pale blue button-down shirt accompanied by a dark purple vest and a paisley yellow tie. His posture was very straight, and he seemed naturally and perfectly at peace in the chaotic atmosphere of the cottage. Quentin stared, blinked foolishly, then realized he had taken too long to reply.

"Um, sorry. I-I mean yes. Drink. That'd be...yes." He fumbled. Inwardly, Quentin cursed his awkwardness. The young man either didn't notice or had simply disregarded Quentin's embarrassment, and slid forward a martini glass filled with a dark, green liquid.

"My signature cocktail." He smirked. His mouth was naturally twisted to one side in a permanent half grimace that clashed with his angular jaw, but the slight smile seemed to brighten his features. It somehow complimented his unusual characteristics. Quentin looked at the drink warily.

"Relax, this isn't some plebeian, seventy ingredient car-crash." He shuddered. "Unless you'd rather a Commonwealth." He slid the drink closer. Quentin gave a small smile in return and took a small sip of the drink, tasting a brief note of peppermint before being overtaken by an intense burning sensation; one that, if Quentin hadn't been trying not to die, he might have identified as vodka. He coughed sharply and blinked back tears.

"Fuck, that's definitely alcohol." Quentin managed hoarsely. The other magician gave a low chuckle.

"What magnificent powers of deduction you possess." He quipped. Quentin scowled slightly and gave another cough. Perhaps sensing an error in his judgement on Quentin's level of enthusiasm, the young man changed tactics.

"Enjoying yourself?" He asked simply.

"Not really, no." Quentin said, his eyes focused on his drink as his fingers drummed nervously on the base of the martini glass. 

"Oh?" The bartender hummed. He didn't look at Quentin, but rather, in typical bartender fashion, tasked himself with cleaning a glass. An action that—considering the clean, dry glass he was polishing—must have been done purely for the aesthetic.

"I mean, I'm just not really a party...social interaction...person." Quentin managed. He had meant to stop there, he really had. "And it-it's not like I wanted to come, this girl named Margo basically told me if I didn't come to this she'd cut my dick off, but then she said I'd _need_ it or something because she thinks someone—somebody named Eliot—would find me _delicious_ , whatever the fuck that means, but this party really isn't my kind of thing and I don’t like parties and I don’t know anyone and I'm having a terrible time so now I'm sitting here trying to avoid whatever weird sex thing is still happening in the living room and I really just want to—" Quentin stopped. He let out a sigh. “I don’t know. Just...sorry. For ranting.”

"Well, she's right." The bartender said. 

Quentin didn’t understand. "What? Who?"

"Margo." He smirked. "But I don't appreciate you insulting my hosting ability."

Quentin processed the other mans words, then groaned and put his head back down on the bar. 

"You're...Eliot...ugh." 

Eliot frowned slightly.

"Disappointed?" He pouted. Quentin sat up immediately.

"What? No, I-I mean I've been—let's-let's, uh, start over." Quentin fumbled. "S-Seventy ingredients? That's...that's a lot..." he trailed off. "Doesn't, um, doesn’t a commonwealth just have orange juice or something?" 

Eliot paused, perhaps contemplating whether or not he had better options. Quentin, meanwhile, was nearly paralyzed with anxiety and wanted to sink into the floor. Sinking into the floor would be nice. The floor wouldn’t mock him. The floor would be kind to him. The floor was—

"Orange twist." Eliot said finally. Quentin breathed an almost imperceptible sigh of relief. "But one with seventy one ingredients was made to commemorate the Commonwealth games. It's a...sports...thing." He cringed. "Leave it to jocks to ruin alcohol.” 

Quentin couldn’t stop staring. Eliot had an air of effortless self-possession that made Quentin urgently want to be his friend, or maybe just be him period. Thank god he somehow hadn't made himself seem like enough of a fuck-up that Eliot was disgusted by him. Or maybe Eliot was disgusted and he was just too polite to say anything. Or maybe not, because Eliot walked out from behind the bar and came around next to Quentin to lean against one of the bar stools.

“Speaking of jocks and their horrible fashion sense—“ Eliot’s eyes ran over him, “—I sorely hope you have other clothes in your wardrobe, Quentin Coldwater, because no hookup of mine is going to be seen coming out of my chambers dressed in clothes with... _drawstrings_.” He gave Quentin's hoodie a look of distaste.

Quentin shrank. _This_ was who Margo had thought he was perfect for? Admittedly, he had known her for less than a month so really it was his fault for letting someone he barely knew drag him into this—even if Quentin felt like his knowledge of Margo’s life was on par with someone who’d known her for years because of how she constantly overshared and freely invaded his personal space. But, to be honest, Quentin didn’t _really_ know anyone. He knew Alice. Sort of. And Penny. Who hated him. Quentin also tended to overthink things and spiral and occasionally fall into pits of despair, but Margo and Eliot seemed...well, Margo hadn’t exactly made a resounding first impression either.

Eliot’s face fell slightly at Quentin's expression, then he recovered and smirked. “Josh says Margo and I talk like pretentious assholes.”

Quentin blinked, processing. “I-I’m pretty sure everyone at Brakebills is a pretentious asshole.” He managed.

Eliot hummed, amused. “Didn’t you know? It’s an admissions requirement.” He paused. “Of course, my admissions requirements are far less rigid. In fact, I think you’ll find I’m rather flexible.”

It was a moment before Quentin understood. And even when he did, he still didn’t understand. “Really? Like-like actually? You want...really?”

“Obviously.” Eliot said easily. “You’re supremely cute.”

Quentin let himself have a little grin. He couldn’t remember anyone ever calling him cute before. But he hesitated.

“You...you mean upstairs right? Like in your room, not...” Quentin’s eyes darted nervously towards the living room. Eliot raised an eyebrow.

“Unless you’d rather join the fray.” He smirked. “I hear fourteen’s company.”

Quentin wavered, his perverse curiosity calling him. _No. Fourteen? No, there couldn’t possibly be that many people having_ —he glanced back at the couch— _oh, no, it’s not fourteen. It’s--that has to be over half the party. And Margo. That’s...nice. Good for them? Good for...diseases, god, that couch should be burned._

“No, two’s fine—upstairs. Upstairs is fine.” He managed. “Uh...lead the way?”

“With pleasure.” Eliot drawled.

He took Quentin’s hand and weaved through the crowd, leading him up the stairs. After winding their way through the upstairs of the cottage and a small series of turns, Eliot stopped, finally pulling open the door to his bedroom. And Quentin just _knew_ that Margo would be infuriatingly smug tomorrow and that he’d have to suffer through an extremely personal interrogation on par with the Spanish Inquisition. Then Eliot glanced back at Quentin with a brilliant grin.

Quentin couldn’t help himself. He grinned back.

Worth it.


End file.
